


Obligation

by PenelopeAbigail



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dark, Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/No Comfort, M/M, Rape, The Mark made me do it, very dark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-04
Updated: 2019-02-04
Packaged: 2019-10-22 08:48:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17659595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PenelopeAbigail/pseuds/PenelopeAbigail
Summary: The Mark of Cain may be Dean's obligation, but Dean is Sam's obligation. Sam knows it's his job to take care of Dean, especially when Dean's not really the one in control. And Sam knows it's his (their) obligation to make sure nobody else gets hurt because of one of them.But then the Mark demanded violence. And now the Mark demands something else.





	Obligation

Sam is on edge. Dean is getting worse and worse, and Sam knows Dean needs to kill, to satiate the Mark, but when he kills, the Mark just gets worse. But it's also getting worse just doing nothing. So he’s at a standstill with no good options and Sam doesn't know what to do...

He also knows that Dean doesn't _mean_ to hurt anybody, but just the slightest thing sets him off now.

He's come home twice, more uptight than before he left, and only upon questioning from Sam the next morning has he fessed up to accidentally hurting a girl he was hooking up with. He didn't meant to, and Sam doesn't blame him, but those occasions make Dean clam up, refuse to leave the bunker, even for a food run.

The Mark just takes over and Dean doesn't think about what he's doing before he does it. Things just happen and then Dean will calm down, actually look at what's happened, and that's when the guilt assaults him.

He can't tell if violent and/or bad things happen completely because of the Mark, or if Dean thinks thoughts like these and does nothing with them. After all, everybody has dark thoughts, everybody has violent thoughts, everybody has intrusive thoughts. Its up to them to choose whether or not to act on them.

Yet, Sam would be lying if he says he isn't scared of Dean. He's been punched in the face several times over the last few months, and yeah, he tries to avoid Dean's bad side (to avoid being punched in the face, obviously), but he is _not_ walking on eggshells. The Mark just makes Dean more violent than normal, and Sam doesn’t like it.

Dean went off last week because Sam made him breakfast and his eggs were slightly not warm (which was completely Dean's own fault. Shouldn't have taken so long to get to the kitchen). He shoved the plate off the table, and it shattered when it hit the wall. Yes, Sam flinched, but come on. That was dramatic and unexpected.

And then just yesterday, Dean toppled a bookshelf in storage room 3 because Sam sneezed and startled him. That was another instance of being dramatic and overreacting. But those didn't make Sam afraid around Dean. He still isn't really _afraid_ , just... precautious, nervous.

But then things started to get worse. Dean's violent outbursts became targeted, no longer just inanimate objects being harmed. At least, this time there was an understandable cause for it.

This time, Dean left the bunker. He has been outrageously horny, and jerking himself off to porn wasn't doing squat. He needs something real. This has happened only a handful of times over their lives, and Sam pities his brother every time, grateful that it's never happened to him.

Except, this time, Dean isn't completely _himself_ ; but Dean leaves his phone in his room, and Sam doesn't catch him before the Impala drives off. So he prays to no one that Dean doesn't hurt anybody.

He does.

He comes back with blood on his knuckles. The wounds are self inflicted with the help of a brick wall.

Dean hurt _himself_.

He's still horny. Sam's pity increases when he sees Dean's erection bulging at his jeans, and he probes, “Did... Is everything all right?”

Dean growls low in his throat, a sound Sam knows the Mark itself produced, and he storms down the hall.

Sam follows him, cautious, not wanting to set him off but wanting to make sure Dean's okay.

Dean addresses him before Sam turns the corner into Dean's room, “If you come in here, Sam, I'll probably shove myself down your throat— _god_ , I can't just _get off._ ”

Sam doesn't really like the sound of that, and knowing the state Dean's in, he might actually do it. So he stops, waits, listens. Then says, “Want me to order a prostitute, or--”

But Dean cuts him off, “Don't bother. I'll just hurt her, too.”

What about, Sam starts but doesn't really want to finish this particular train of thought, doesn't like where it's headed, though it _is_ an option, “What about a prostitute who can take a little BDSM?”

Dean is silent.

Then, “Yeah... yeah, I'll give it a try. Not here though! I'll go to the motel a mile over.”

He shoves himself past Sam, and Sam just stands there.

Dean calls back, just before the door opens, “Be back later.”

So... Dean's resorting to BDSM, now... Sam never expected that to happen. Sure, he was the one who suggested it, but he didn't expect Dean to actually go for it. He just wanted to lighten the mood a little. Yeah, who was he kidding.

But then Dean comes back, half an hour later, “There's no prostitutes into BDSM available for the next twelve hours. I'll just have to deal with this.”

The lie is blatant. There are _always_ hookers, _all_ the time. Sam half believes the lie, knowing Dean's just scared of hurting innocent people, even in the name of BDSM. There's no telling how far the Mark would let Dean go unrestrained like that. He could kill somebody...

So Sam lets him go, leaves him alone for the next hour and a half, and takes up some research. Surely the Men of Letters have _something_ on breaking tough curses…

He startles when he hears Dean's scream of anger from down the hall. There was probably smashing mixed with it, but Sam hasn't heard a scream of pure rage like that from Dean in... a very long time. So, naturally, that's what he focuses on.

He slides the gun from its hidden holster under the table and slowly stands up. Odds are, Dean is completely fine. If there is something threatening in the bunker, Dean will be completely fine. So, the gun is completely for Sam's own protection. Right?

He slowly advances toward the hall through the library, “Dean? You good?”

Another scream of rage. Is Dean frustrated with something? Has he finished the second season of Sherlock or something?

Sam rounds a corner, and that's when he hears the smack and crash of things being thrown and broken.

Again.

Dean's door is open, looks like it was violently slammed closed yet didn't take and bounced off the hinge, leaving the entrance into Dean's room wide open, and Sam can see everything.

He sees the destruction, lamps broken and books open on the floor. He sees Dean's anger, the flushed face and wild look in his eyes that isn't completely Dean. He sees the erection Dean's sporting, proud and tall, _unclothed_.

Dean was trying to relieve himself--after all this time? He still can't get it down? No wonder he's so frustrated.

Sam relaxes and stands straight, “Ah, sorry!”

Dean probably doesn't want him seeing him like this, so Sam makes to close Dean's door, but Dean comes at him, wild eyes wide open and nostrils flaring. He looks like a madman, slams Sam into the wall outside the room. It's so unexpected, Sam doesn't react immediately. Dean hooks the back of his foot behind Sam's leg, dropping Sam to his hands and knees, fists a hand in Sam's hair, yanks his head up, and that's when Sam reacts, brings his hands up to push Dean back.

Lightning reflexes enhanced by the hungry Mark easily swipe Sam's hands into one fist, pinned to the wall, while the other still holds Sam's hair, and Dean, so desperate for release and an end to it all, shoves his way down Sam's throat with such force that he knocks Sam's head back against the wall.

The sensations he had been desperate for _hours_ are finally being satiated, pleasure and bliss overtaking every thought, and Sam knows this, knows that it's not Dean's fault, not really, so he doesn't fight it, just clenches his fists and closes his eyes, trying very hard to not let his gag reflex invoke vomiting.

Breathing is a little difficult, and his lips ache from being stretched, but otherwise he's fine. Dean hasn't hurt him much, and Sam isn't sure if that's because Dean didn't bother with foreplay that might’ve hurt him in favor of just getting the job done, or if he's trying, actually _trying_ to not hurt Sam.

Regardless Sam is grateful that Dean isn't hurting him, that he didn't need violence to satiate the Mark, well, _hopefully_ he doesn't need violence. Hopefully this will be all there is to it.

Sam's thoughts are derailed when Dean slams his head against the wall again, throws his head back and stills--in the wrong place in Sam's mouth, because he can't breathe. Sam's senses focus on the one thing, tune everything else out except the need to breathe.

His eyes shoot open, and he struggles against Dean's flimsy hold on his wrists, aware of the abhorrent warmth sliding down his throat but not yet daring to think about it.

His wrists easily yank free, and when Dean’s done, he shoves him back, falling forward and bracing himself against the floor, coughing and heaving in great gasps of air.

Dean is gone when he looks up, door closed and everything is quiet.

Sam retreats to his own room, deciding that the library is too open, too bright, too insecure.

He realizes as he locks his door that he's shaking, that he's extremely nauseated, and that what just happened left a pit of horror and revulsion in his gut that he has no idea how to get rid of.

Dean was his brother. His _brother_. yet...

Sam didn't see this coming, never ever would have thought Dean of incest.

But, was that _really_ what this was? Dean desperately needed to get off, and nothing was working. Sam just happened to be the only option. That they were blood made no difference, right?

He doesn't realize it until he lays down to sleep atop his blanket that suddenly, he's afraid. He's afraid of Dean. He's afraid of what Dean will do. Because what if Dean didn't care? What if this happens again and the Mark demands to be satiated as well, with violence or death? What if Dean's again so afraid of hurting innocent people that he locks himself in the bunker with Sam as his only outlet. Will Dean shove his dick down Sam's throat again?

Will he bother asking or will he just take what he wants?

Sam is aware that their brotherly relationship isn't a 50-50 give and take. It's more 30-70 give and take on Dean’s part, and Sam is also aware that Dean tends to be in charge, tends to be the one giving orders and taking after Dad with the military persona. Sam's the submissive follower, but there's nothing wrong with that. He has no real problem with their dynamic.

Except.

Except what if Dean decides to continue taking from Sam like he did just now?

Sam is clearly repulsed by the thought of any sort or form of a sexual relationship with his brother, but does Dean feel the same way?

If Dean comes at him again, what will he do?

He really has no idea.

Sam can’t sleep that night, and neither of them mention what happened.

It happens to Dean again, but this time, everything is okay.

This time, Dean texts Sam at five in the morning: “Don't come near my room. Don't wanna hurt you.”

Sam wakes when his phone vibrates, checks the message, and is extremely curious and a little bit worried. He knows exactly what's going on with Dean, but it’s five in the morning. He thinks nothing more of it, and goes back to sleep.

He gets up an hour and a half later at six thirty, puts the coffee on, and reheats a few pancakes that were leftover from Sunday morning.

He briefly thinks about taking Dean a mug and a short stack, but remembers the text. He figures Dean can go a bit without food and coffee. Knowing Dean, he probably already has exhausted his stash of booze in his room, and the text made it seem unlikely that Dean'll come get more. No bother. He's close to the bathroom, so he can get a glass of water if he's thirsty.

Sam goes about his day as if Dean had taken the day off. Which he did.

He washes dishes, finishes up a book (for research purposes), selects a few new volumes to go through, zones out halfway through the second tome, thinking about Dean.

He feels pity, just like before, and he hates that Dean is going through all this. He kinda wants to do something a little special for him when this is over, perhaps an actual home-cooked dinner? Sam doesn’t cook very often, but Dean enjoys it when Sam cooks, most of the time because he likes laughing at Sam when he burns something. But he knows it sits special with Dean that he tried.

He then realizes that he's zoned out, so he jots down a few ingredients for a grocery list based on what they don't have compared to a recipe he gets off Dean's Pinterest (as if Sam wouldn't ever find out), grabs his wallet, shoots Dean a message, and heads toward the garage. He's already in the driver's seat when he realizes that Dean has the Impala's keys, and he doesn't particularly feel like taking his brother's dick down his throat again, so he grabs the keys to another car the old guys left.

He briefly worries about the gas in the tank, but then remembers that Dean filled them all up, _in case of an emergency_ , he had said.

He's back within two hours and still no message from Dean. It's just after five o'clock, and Sam's heard nothing all day. He decides to wait on that special meal, and reheats more pancakes when he sees that his lettuce has gone bad. A bit of junk food won't kill him. Yet. Exactly how bad for you are pancakes?

He eats, then goes back to more research, and his brain is out of energy by eight.

He decides to watch some Netflix for a while, then head to bed.

He doesn't think about Dean and the situation much, besides the thoughts sent his way that afternoon, but there's still some form of light fear in Sam's gut when he thinks that Dean's been stewing all day long, remembering how it just gets worse the longer it goes on, so he locks his door when he closes it.

His thoughts are the same as the first time, wondering himself in circles about what could happen and how he'd react in various scenarios, but he tells himself that Dean has way more control over the Mark than he's giving him credit for. There's no way Dean would kill him in cold blooded passion.

...But, what if he tries?

He gets his answer the next time around.

It's a couple weeks later when it happens again, and this time it's bad.

Cas is MIA, Garth is still missing, Metatron is being himself, and their hackles are thoroughly raised.

Sam isn't walking on eggshells.

He's not.

It's just that Dean's been in a mood all day long, a mood that is steadily getting worse the longer the day gets, and Sam's ready to lock himself in his room, away from Dean and the nerves he raises on the back of Sam's neck.

He doesn't want to be punched in the face right now.

Sam is also wound tight with the goings-on around them, it's not just Dean, and that puts him in a mood that really wouldn't appreciate a nice, hard, no-holds-back punch in his face from Dean for saying something Dean doesn't like.

It's eleven o'clock; they're both tired and exhausted (despite what Dean says, he _is_ ), and Sam's a little excited about Charlie paying them a visit tomorrow morning. She's an hour away but says he has to crash at a motel. Been awake for 55 hours straight so her driving is not okay. Sam told her he'll make breakfast when she gets here.

So he really doesn't want to be punched in the face right now.

It would leave a mark and Charlie would worry.

He's already got all the pancake stuff out on the counter, the eggs warming to room temperature, because he read that online and figures he'll try it.

It's eleven o'clock but Sam wants to finish off this book before bed. He doesn't want to feel compelled to finish it when Charlie's here. He wants to relax, wants Dean to relax too, and this is the last one from his pull stack.

Dean goes upstairs on the balcony, but not out the door, and Sam's so tired, he really doesn't care what Dean's up to.

It's twelve thirty when Dean topples the table over the railing, startling Sam awake. Dean throws something else over, which crashes loudly, but Sam can't see what it is. He's upset, angry or something, yelling, but Sam can't make out the words over whatever Dean is pounding his fist into.

Sam doesn't bother pulling out his gun, just opts to defense and approaches. Dean's words become intelligible when he spots Sam and stops his violence, “—so sick and tired of all this crap and would honestly just rather die.”

Dean looks at Sam, and Sam looks at Dean's crotch. Dean's still talking when Sam meets his eyes, “I’m going to hurt Charlie, I am, I can feel it in my veins, I just _need_ —“

And Sam cuts him off there, “Dean! You're not going to hurt Charlie. You're stronger than the Mark. You can fight this.”

Dean doesn't let Sam continue, “No, I can’t, I can feel it in my head, controlling me and making me do things and I just feel it _so much,_ it's so bad Sammy you don't understand, _I need—I need_ —“

Sam's watching him closely and notices when his eyes unfocus, then focus on him, and then Dean is storming toward him. Sam can see it in his eyes, Dean is right, the Mark just takes over. Sam can see it in his eyes. Dean is going to hurt him.

Sam backs up, then quickly, then swivels around and runs the opposite direction. Dean can beat this, Dean can claw his way back up, but in the meantime, Sam needs to find a room with a door that locks.

He gets as far as the first table in the library before something crashes into the back of his leg and he falls face first.

And Sam really doesn't want to be punched in the face right now.

But Dean lands hard on his back, as if he jumped on him, pseudo-tackling him when he is already down, “Sammy, come on man, ya did this for me before, just one more time—“

He flips Sam around, and Sam sees his eyes, wild and wide and yeah, Dean's in there and talking but it's _not_ Dean. It's the Mark, but Sam really doesn't want to take anything right now, especially since the last time, his cheeks were hurting and his lips were cracked and bruised and it was obvious what happened. Charlie's coming tomorrow and he’d rather be punched in the face right now.

So he clenches his jaw and refuses to open, not even to say anything.

Dean's still talking, rushing his words out like a madman, “— _please_ Sammy come on, I need this, do this for me, you love me don't ya—“

And Sam stops listening, knows that's not Dean talking, but if he just lays there, Dean'll force him, so he fights back, punches Dean with his right hand since Dean's favoring his left side. Dean's caught off guard and sways a bit, giving Sam the leeway to knock him off completely in order to get away.

Dean's reactions are faster, though, and he just swings his legs around, kicking Sam where they'd always agreed that no matter what, they wouldn't do that ever.

Sam goes down knowing that it's _absolutely_ not Dean in control.

Dean flips him over and clocks him, sending his left cheek hard into the hardwood flooring, and Sam briefly thinks that the blood from his nose will be easy to clean up, when Dean hits him again, turning his face to the other side.

Then again. And again.

He must've been dazed for a few seconds because now Dean's got his dick out and sick fear trails down Sam's spine like cool sweat on a hot summer day. He brings his arms up to push Dean off, but he must be off his game because Dean makes it look so effortless to capture his right arm under his knee and his left hand in an iron grip.

Sam yanks and yanks but Dean just sends his face to the side again, and this time, Sam's sure his cheekbone is busted.

When he looks back up, Dean's securing his wrist around the leg of the table with a belt—is it Sam's or Dean's? Who cares, cause then Dean's probing his mouth with his dick, and Sam clamps it shut, yanking on his right hand.

Dean leans more weight on his knee atop Sam's wrist, shooting lightning pain all up and down his arm. Sam's afraid his wrist is going to break, but his attention is diverted by the very obvious dick in his face and his brother's voice, “Come on Sam, please open up. We've come this far, and I just really need this right now.”

Sam's becoming more and more panicked as it looks like there's no way out of this, but he's not going to just give in. His face is in pain and his wrist is in pain, but he didn't come this far just to give up.

So he yanks at his wrist some more and opens his eyes that he didn't know he'd closed to see Dean's very angry face twisting to look down at the wrist pinned beneath the knee. He sees Dean's decision a split second too late and opens his mouth to protest _no_ but Dean does this little jump without breaking contact with Sam's body or the ground, shifting all his weight to his left knee and coming down hard.

Sam's already open mouth parts further to release a scream from the blinding pain—is it broken or just dislocated? Can wrists even _be_ dislocated?

Sam doesn't know and doesn't care enough because now there's a dick in his throat cutting off his air, and Dean's eyes are closed with a faint _yes_ on his lips.

Sam doesn't care, doesn't want this in his mouth, doesn't think about how angry Dean will be, but bites down, hard as he can, because this is reminding him too much of memories he doesn't want to be reminded of, and Dean reels off him with a howl.

Sam gasps in air, pulls his right arm up to his chest, and breathes in two gulps of air before resuming his escape. He twists to his side and sits up, about to yank his hand out of the belt-restraint, but doesn't get the chance. Dean kicks him back down, kicks him in his ribs nice and hard, and Sam knows he's angry and not holding back, and also wearing steel-toed boots, but thinks that was completely unnecessary, because now he's definitely got some busted ribs too.

He's back on his back and Dean punches him in the face only once before resting his weight on Sam's hips, examining the bite on his dick. Sam takes the opportunity to spit out, “Do it again and I'll bite harder. Now Get. Off. Me.”

Satisfied that he's just about won this round (because come on, even the Mark doesn't want his dick being bitten off), Sam begins to calm down. Surely, Dean won't try again, and if he does, Sam'll make good on that promise.

But Dean just punches him again, beating that broken cheekbone further, and pain blinds Sam, whiting out his vision, releasing a scream before he can cut it off in his throat and he does though, but he doesn't hear what Dean says next.

He comes back seconds later to hear his belt clatter somewhere to his right near the wall and Dean's talking, but he doesn't pay attention to the words, just that they're angry and full of _raw_ passion and he's spitting them out. He doesn't hear Dean's threats because Dean's unbuttoning his jeans, unzipping them, and tugging them down his hips, and Sam realizes something that he hasn't thought about, hasn't needed to think about, because _they're brothers_ , and this was never a possibility. This was never going to happen, ever, and never _should_ happen, and oh god Dean's gonna—Dean's going to—

No, he can't, and Sam struggles, using his legs to try to kick Dean off, or over, or at least in his face. His left arm is bound and his right is useless in it's agony, so all he has left are his feet. Dean grabs his left leg before it can sink into his face and break his nose, but his right hits, lands on his shoulder and knocks him back.

He growls, and Sam kicks out again, but Dean has a knife Sam didn't notice (he should have, he _knows_ Dean is armed at all times), and he stabs it into Sam's left thigh, stilling him. He closes his eyes and clenches his teeth against the pain, grunting his scream, allowing Dean to slice his jeans with the knife he must've pulled from Sam's flesh. His left leg definitely hurts, but it could be worse, and he doesn't think it's that bad, so he resumes his kicking, albeit sluggishly, and Dean's able to easily counter. He grabs that same left leg right above the knee and _twists_ until it pops at his hip, a sickening wet sound that combines with the pain into vomit, and Sam barely twists his head to the side in time.

He hears Dean laugh, “Good thing your mouth was already open or you would've choked.”

Dean pats his cheek twice, and Sam just lays there, breathing through all the pain.

He realizes there's tears in his eyes, tracks on his cheeks drying in the cool of the bunker, and he looks back up to Dean in anguish.

 _No_ , he chokes out, surges as far forward as he can in hopes to stop this, but Dean pushes forward, _into him_ , and he screams yet again as Dean tears his way inside. His entire back is on fire, he's sure of it. Dean must have done something while he was dazed, and his brother isn't in the frame of mind right now to even care that Sam's about to burn alive, but then something inside him _moves,_ so Sam's thoughts turn white, his vision turns white, and all he can feel is the raging fire in his back as _Dean_ is moving.

He's moving _inside_ him, and Sam thinks he's going to be sick again, and the pain ebbs _only slightly_. His senses come back, his thoughts come back, his hearing comes back. Dean's talking, and Sam's staring at the ceiling, mouth agape as he understands what's happening. He's being raped. He's being raped _by his brother_.

Sam's not fighting, just twitching with the pain and the force of Dean's thrusts, sliding along the ground. Dean's got his hands on Sam's hips, one on his left, a never-ending fire that flares every time Dean pushes, and the other slightly lower on Sam's right. Sam tries to be still, to not provoke Dean further, but Dean's talking, “So tight, mmm, yeah, so good, but too tight, just a little wider, come on Sammy, I know you can do it, spread a little wider for me—“

Sam desperately wants this to be a dream, a nightmare, doesn't think he can handle this being real, because his face is broken, his right wrist is broken, his left wrist is tied to the table, his left hip is definitely dislocated _and_ bleeding from the stab wound. His lower back is definitely on fire, there are tears flowing steadily from his eyes, and he's definitely screaming his throat up something good. He should probably stop screaming.

But it's just so hard when there's just so much pain, and he can't not think, “This isn't real.”

This has to be a dream. But it just feels so incredibly real, so maybe it is? Maybe it isn't Dean hurting him, maybe its Lucifer with all his fire. Maybe he's still in hell, just like Lucifer tried to tell him, and _Dean_ isn't raping his litter brother.

Dean's trying to pry his legs open more, Sam knows. Dean's telling him to open wider, telling him _he's_ hurting _Dean_ , and Sam is trying, but he just _can't_ , even though he knows it wouldn’t help anyway because that’s not how it works, but he can’t say anything coherent, so Dean pries and pries and Sam is still crying, great sobs that take up all his breath and he breathes wetly, snot trailing down his sinuses into the back of his throat and he knows it's going to pool in his stomach and make him sick later, but he doesn't care, doesn't focus on that, because Dean is pulling and prying and pushing, and Sam can't breathe because his right hip pops, just like the other one, and all Sam can see is white, all Sam can hear is his hoarse scream, all Sam can feel is sharp fiery pain _everywhere_ and he tries to reach for it, tries to make it stop, but one of his hands isn't cooperating and the other just hurts so much, then Dean catches his wrist and squeezes and _laughs,_ and all there is is _pain—_ but then blackness takes over everything.

Sam comes to hours later in the dark. He tries to move, to curl up and make himself smaller, but his entire body hurts too much and he slips away again.

He comes to again to footsteps slowly coming closer, to whispering he can faintly hear in the quiet of the bunker, “…just a dream… just a dream…”

Then the footsteps stop and he hears a gasp, a shaky exhale, another sad little _No_ , so he opens his eyes, thinks, _That must be Dean. Coming back for more?_ Surely not. _Please no._ Please _let the Mark be satisfied._

Dean's standing several feet away, standing between Sam and the door, and Sam deliberately doesn't look at his face, keeps his eyes down and away. Dean just stands there, doesn't move or anything. Barely breathes, and Sam's barely breathing. The quiet is suddenly split by a phone, Sam's phone, over on the table where he left it the night before. It's buzzing, vibrating against the table, and all Sam can think about is, _Please let that be Dean calling, don't let this be Dean here, this_ can't _be Dean._

The phone stops, and Dean is still standing there. He moves now, takes a couple steps toward Sam, but Sam flinches hard, closes his eyes against the pain that flares in his hips, and then there's a loud clanging from up above. The door is opening and Dean turns around, turns his back to Sam and they both hear a vibrant, excited voice echoing slightly from the stairwell, “Sam? Dean? Anybody awake?”

It's Charlie, and Sam can't believe he actually forgot she was coming by.

She opens the door to the balcony, and says, “Dean! Hey—“

But Dean runs away, down the hallway and out of sight. Sam's gaze lands on Charlie, and she sees him now that Dean's out of the way, sees him laying there, probably in a pool of blood. Her eyes widen, and she drops whatever it is that she's holding, “Sam! Oh my gosh—holy fish on _sticks_ , are you—are—“

And Sam realizes that he's completely naked from the waist down, that his face is covered in blood and probably snot, that Charlie is seeing the aftermath of what happened.

And it really happened.

He turns his head to look at himself, look at his sorry state, look at his legs spread wide, one at a strange twisted angle, the other sloppy with blood, his dick hanging limply, his privacy gone, and he wants to move, to close, to hide, but he knows both hips are dislocated, have been for several hours now and that if he tries to move, there will be nothing but pain. His humiliation is great though, and he tries anyway, despite what the logical side of his brain is telling him, and sure enough, he’s rewarded with flaring pain.

He barely twitches. Charlies doesn’t even notice.

He doesn’t notice Charlie taking her coat off, and she drapes it over his lap, then reaches up to grab his face maybe, but he doesn’t find out what she was planning to do because he flinches again, hard and winces.

She’s talking, “Sam? What happened? Dean! Dean?”

She’s calling for Dean to come and help or something, but Sam really doesn’t want to Dean to come back, _desperately_ doesn’t want Dean to come back, so he chokes out, “No! No, _please_ , not him.”

He realizes the mistake as soon as he says that. He never intended to tell her that Dean did this, not that he had much opportunity to think about not telling her, but he guesses that after all this, he still doesn’t want Dean’s friends thinking badly of him.

“Dean did this?” She asks, “Did Dean do this?”

He doesn’t answer her, just lays there, still, and she just looks at his hand, the belt still cutting off the circulation, and he can _feel_ the horror dawning on her face as she realizes what’s happened.

He didn’t want to be punched in the face because he didn’t want her to see him with a bruise or anything, and yet…

“Can—can you, um…” She’s trying to say something, Sam’s not sure what. She doesn’t follow that up with anything, just digs around in her bag for something, produces a knife, and saws through Dean’s leather belt. That’s his favorite belt, but she doesn’t know that. Doesn’t bother to unbuckle or untie it, whichever it was. But her knife must be sharp because his hand hits the ground in no time. He doesn’t feel it in his hand though, feels it in his shoulder, which means that his hand might not be salvageable after all this time with no blood circulation. He’ll just have to wait and see.

He turns his head to look at it, and notices for the first time how red it is, and there’s some blood in a small slice. He must have struggled a lot more than he thought.

“Can you, um, walk? I can take you to the hospital?” Her tone and fluctuations implied that it was all his decision what happens. And he really doesn’t want to go to the hospital.

He just wants Dean to come back, the real Dean, the one who would never ever even think about his little brother like… like _that._

How did this happen?

He says, “I don’t think so.”

And his voice is hoarse, a lot hoarser that he expected, and they both hear it.

“What do you want me to do?” She timidly asks.

“Can you call Cas?”

She nods, and takes out her phone, but, “I don’t have his number…”

He looks up toward the other table, “My phone’s over there.”

He closes his eyes, but feels her get up, hears her footsteps, and then, “No, it’s Charlie… No, um, I don’t know what’s going on, but Sam’s… Sam really needs help right now. Like, really bad… No, like ASAP bad… Okay, thank you. Bye.”

She sounds scared, Sam observes. His eyes begin to fill with tears, and she comes back near him, crouches down again.

He opens his eyes. She looks scared, too.

“This looks really bad, Sam,” she says.

He just closes his eyes again, just doesn’t want her to see him cry, but the reality of the situation is beginning to set in, and he can’t stop the tears that have already welled up from falling.

“I’m going to get some water and a rag. Stay awake. I’ll be back in a minute.”

He does. More tears fall and he catalogues all his injuries. Again. He tries to not think about what happened, but it’s really hard not to. It’s really hard not replaying the events in his head, and he’s quietly sobbing when Charlie returns.

“Shh, shh,” she soothes, and he feels a blessedly cool rag gently on his forehead. There must be blood up there. Maybe a gash, cause how else would there be blood up there?

She gently moves along his temple, down to his cheekbone, the one that isn’t on fire with the pain of betrayal, and he warns her about that one.

She spends several minutes wiping away the blood in silence. He regulates his breathing, and he falls asleep to her carding her finger through his hair, telling him that Cas will be here in about another hour and a half.

When he wakes, it’s to the sound of the door, to the sound of Cas coming home, and Cas is in a hurry, “Sam? Charlie?”

“Over here!” She calls.

Cas comes into view and Sam smiles for the first time in a long while, “Cas.”

“ _Sam_! You do not look well, Charlie said you’re very hurt, what happened?” He rushes it all out.

He skips the story because he really doesn’t want to tell him about it and undoubtedly doesn’t want to tell Charlie about it, so he goes through his catalogue instead: “My face is certainly broken and bleeding. Throat’s messed up. Left hand’s numb and slightly bleeding, probably won’t need stitches. Right wrist is broken. A couple ribs are broken. Shallow stab wound in the left thigh. Left hip also dislocated. Right hip dislocated…”

He deliberately skips over the most traumatic of his injuries, not wanting to think about that, not wanting them to think about that, and instead opts to finish with, ”…um, some internal injuries, too."

Cas is looking around the room, “Where is Dean? Sam, what happened?”

He doesn’t answer to their satisfaction, but he answers, “Dean’s gone. Doesn’t matter what happened. Can you heal at all?”

Cas looks distraught, “Barely. I have only a tiny bit of grace left. I could heal maybe you cuts or internal injuries, but not much at all. I’m sorry, Sam.”

Sam closes his eyes. He was banking on Cas being able to heal. He absolutely needs a hospital then, but he can barely move and he really doesn’t want to bother Dean. He’ll need a cover story, and the hospital will definitely do a rape test—did Dean…Did Dean come _inside_ him? He was unconscious by that point, and he can’t remember. It would be very bad if the hospital traces it back to him.

He’s going to have to go to the hospital even if Cas heals him, so he decides to let Cas keep the remaining grace, and asks, “Can you take me to the hospital, then? I prob—“

He gasps and lets out a shallow sob, still reeling from the events, a lone tear escapes when he blinks, “I probably need surgery and stitches.”

Cas is obviously fazed by what’s happening, but he’s holding it together well, “I’ll get Dean to help—“

“No! Not Dean. Charlie can help get me to the car, but don’t bother Dean,” He rushes it all out and squeezes his eyes closed. This is so humiliating.

Cas doesn’t know what to do about his request, but he goes along with it. Charlie too, and together, they carry Sam to the garage so they could avoid the stairs. Sam passes out as soon as they stand him up.

He wakes again in a hospital bed, the usual beeping from the monitors is all he hears, so he opens his eyes. It’s dark in his room, and he turns to where the window normally would be and sees that it’s also dark outside. And that there’s a person asleep in the chair next to his bed. It looks like Charlie.

He fully wakes up when he remembers why Charlie’s there and why he’s in the hospital. This is surely not why Charlie came to visit.

Charlie stirs, maybe cause the beeping of the monitors changed rhythm, and she says sleepily, “Sam? You awake?”

He replies, “Yeah.”

She asks, “Are you feeling okay?”

He says again, “Yeah. Pretty drugged.”

She hesitates, but, “Can you tell me what happened?”

He hesitates too, “We need to get that Mark off.”


End file.
